


This Is Why We're On The Edge

by Thistlerose



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-20
Updated: 2010-08-20
Packaged: 2017-10-11 04:32:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/108433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thistlerose/pseuds/Thistlerose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone is going to elaborate lengths to mess with Jim Kirk's head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is Why We're On The Edge

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Lauriegilbert for beta reading. I'm outlining a sequel to this, though at present it stands on its own. Contains references torture and OC deaths, all of which take place off-screen.

"Doctor McCoy, please have a seat."

Ordinarily, McCoy doesn't mind a friendly tone, but coming from a man like Agent Schrader – if that's really his name – it puts a bad taste in his mouth. Moving closer so he can drop his voice and still be heard, he mutters, "Thought we could just take care of things quickly. I don't see any reason to drag this out. Do you?"

Schrader has pale gray eyes, and they go wide with feigned hurt. "But I came all the way to Starbase 11 so we could chat."

"Yeah, well. My sympathies. I know how tedious a space voyage can be."

Schrader says evenly, "This is not a courtesy call, Doctor, as you're well aware. As a Starfleet officer, you are obligated to cooperate, under penalty of—"

McCoy takes a quick glance around. Beta shift has just ended, and the bar is filling slowly. McCoy recognizes a few faces, but no one is coming here to meet him; he put Chapel in charge of restocking the med bay, and Jim's probably still down in Engineering, trying to help with repairs and doubtless making a nuisance of himself. Thinking about Jim and how much he loves his ship, McCoy turns back to Schrader.

The man is still looking up at him, one neatly manicured hand folded over the other, blandly handsome features exuding wounded innocence.

"Fine." McCoy drops into the seat opposite his, and hunches his shoulders. "Let's get this damn thing over with. What the hell do you want to know about James Kirk that isn't already on-record?"

"First of all," says Schrader, all ice and polished metal now, "I'll take your communicator. Just for the duration of our conversation," he adds when McCoy bristles. "I'll be recording this, of course."

"And you don't want me doing the same?"

"Precisely."

McCoy sighs as he removes his communicator from his utility belt and hands it over. It had been a thought.

"Secondly," says Schrader, "do you have what I asked you to bring?"

McCoy digs into his pocket and withdraws a datachip. He pushes it across the table to Schrader, who takes it quickly. "Don't know what else you could possibly want from me," he harrumphs.

"I want your opinion."

"You have it. My medical log is available to Starfleet Intelligence."

"I want your personal opinion on Captain Kirk's performance."

"Regarding?"

"I think you know," Schrader says.

"Indulge me."

"If you insist. On Stardate 2259.64, Captain Kirk was abducted during an away mission on Ixonus VII. He was recovered precisely fifty-three point seven hours later, on a station orbiting the moon of the fourth planet in the neighboring Jaura system. He appeared to have been abandoned by his abductors, who were not present at the time of his recovery, though he showed evidence of having been tortured."

McCoy's legs move restlessly under the table. He keeps his hands tightly curled, resisting the urge to lash out at Schrader. Disgusted, both with the memory and the dawning awareness of where this conversation is headed, he says, "I'd call fifteen broken bones, chemical burns, and whip wheals proof, not evidence. Then there's the fact that he spent most of those fifty-three-plus hours awake in a freezing cell, with—"

Schrader turns his hands over so his palms face upward. It isn't exactly a gesture of submission, but it's – something. McCoy stops for a moment, then says more calmly, "If you're wondering whether Kirk gave anything away, I suggest you review his log entries. Though I imagine you have."

"The official ones, yes. And no, Doctor, there is at present no reason to believe that Starfleet security was compromised by anything Kirk said under torture."

"Captain Kirk. Use the man's goddamn title. He's earned it."

"Forgive me, he has," Schrader says in a different tone, which signals to McCoy that he's about to try a new tack. "For such a young man, he's accomplished a great deal. Saved the Earth – directly and indirectly – on more than one occasion. Prevented the assassination of Romulan Ambassador Lamok. Negotiated a ceasefire between the S'danni and Fi tribes on Dagaron Prime. Recovered the _USS Aldrin_ and was able to piece together what happened to her crew. Discovered—"

"I don't need his biography," McCoy interrupts. "I was there, after all, for all of those things."

"Yes, you were there. Including Stardate 2259.105, when Captain Kirk ignored a direct order from Commodore Mendoza. Would you care to tell me what you remember of that incident?"

Brought up short, McCoy looks away. Since he last checked, the bar has become quite crowded; patrons mingle, ordering drinks and food, chatting. Their individual words are indistinguishable, but their noise is a dull roar. Right now, he'd give just about anything to join them. But he has to get through this first.

At length, he responds, "Mendoza—"

"Commodore Mendoza. I believe he's earned it as well."

"Right, Commodore Mendoza. He ordered the _Enterprise_ to proceed to Starbase 23 to retrieve Ambassador Levine, as well as some supplies for transport."

"What kind of supplies?" Schrader asks, as if he doesn't know.

"Medical," McCoy says. "A new vaccine for the colonists on Praxhalit, plus hyposprays, sterilizers…" He waves his hand instead of saying, _And so on._

Schrader nods. "And what was his reasoning?"

"We'd just received a distress call from an Andorian science vessel in the Mirach system. They'd been attacked by an unknown ship. They got away, but had reason to believe they were being followed."

"Commodore Mendoza was informed?"

"Of course," McCoy snaps. He's reaching his limit with this bullshit interrogation.

"And, what was his response?"

McCoy drums his fingertips against the table and sighs. "That we should ignore the Andorians and proceed to Starbase 23."

"Ignore the Andorians?" Schrader raises his eyebrows. "That seems strange, considering they are Federation."

"The _USS Tecumseh_ received the distress call as well. They were only a little farther out than we were." _Which you know, asshole._

"But Captain Kirk ignored the order."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because," says McCoy, "he had reason to believe the ship that attacked the Andorians belonged to the people who abducted and tortured him some months earlier."

"Really." Schrader blinks his silvery eyes and laces his fingers. "What was his reasoning?"

Something that feels an awful lot like a lead pellet settles in McCoy's stomach. He gets the sense that this isn't going well, though fuck him if he knows why or how. Schrader has _read_ the goddamn reports. McCoy isn't telling him anything he can't possibly know already. "The attacking ship – whoever they were – demanded the Andorians' surrender. The demand was recorded and included in the distress call. Jim – Captain Kirk – thought he recognized the voice."

"'Thought'?"

"He recognized it, all right? He never saw their faces, but they talked a lot. He says he recognized it, and I trust him."

"Interesting that he could be so sure after so much time had elapsed."

"He's … like that. He's good at remembering things. Brilliant. Facts get filed away in that brain of his, and they just…" He waves his hand again. "…click. It happened at the attack on Vulcan. He was half-asleep, suffering from a severe allergic reaction to a vaccine. He heard the words 'lightning storm in space,' remembered something he'd overheard two evenings ago, and he made the connection. He's brilliant."

He flushes slightly as he can't help remembering how pissed off he used to get when Jim just rolled off him and started chattering about trade negotiations and astrophysics. It took him a while to realize the kid wasn't being an asshole; his brain simply has no off-switch. That McCoy is able to hold his attention for as long as he does is … something.

"It's interesting," Agent Schrader says, cutting into McCoy's thoughts, "that you should mention the Vulcan Tragedy. Captain Kirk's uncanny ability to put two and two together, even while sedated, turned out to be an asset. And yet, I can't help wondering, if the circumstances had not been so deeply personal, would he have been as intuitive?"

"What are you saying?" McCoy asks guardedly. "Just be blunt. I don't have the time or the patience for this."

"Very well." Schrader leans forward across the table. His pale eyes shine with an almost feverish excitement. "In both instances, vengeance was a motivator."

"No!" The denial just sort of explodes from McCoy's mouth. He bites his lip, hunches more deeply. The way he's sitting is starting to make his back ache, but he doesn't care. "James Kirk is not vengeful. He offered mercy to Nero. Of all people! The man responsible for his father's death, not to mention billions—"

Schrader interrupts him: "After ignoring a direct order from a superior officer, James T. Kirk flew to the rescue of the threatened Andorian ship. Did he save them?"

For a few moments, all McCoy can do is glare. He can feel his cheeks burning, his nostrils flaring. His heart is clanging in his chest.

"Take your time," Schrader says coolly.

"No," McCoy bites out at last. "We were too late. We found the remains of the Andorian ship, and the other ship's warp signature."

"And what was Captain Kirk's reaction?"

"He was upset, of course!"

"I mean, how did he react?"

McCoy hesitates. Jim slammed his hand so hard against his console that his knuckles bled, but that's not in the official report. "He was upset," McCoy says again evasively. "When the _Tecumseh_ arrived, he conferred with Captain Parekh. We fed the warp signature into both our ships' computers, but couldn't come up with a match. So we don't know who the hell they are, but J – Captain Kirk is still convinced they're the bastards who tortured him."

He closes his eyes briefly and sees Jim, pale as snow in the starlight as he rests his forehead against the window in their quarters. The blankets pool around his naked body. He looks tired, worn down, and so far away.

McCoy opens his eyes. Schrader is still there, his lips curled in a curious, almost anticipatory smile.

"Look," McCoy says, and he has to drag his words out, "I don't know what good revisiting all this crap can possibly do for you or your agency. You obviously know what I'm going to say, so can we just cut to the chase? He's been reprimanded for the incident with the Andorians."

"Yes, _that _is on record." McCoy wonders at the slight emphasis, but he has no time to ask what the hell Schrader means by it. "Tell me," the intelligence agent says, "about Stardate 2259.293. The _Enterprise_ was in orbit around the moon of Athaal in the Trellus system. The Vaadonites had a research facility there, but there'd been no contact in one Standard month, which was cause for concern. According to the ship's logs, Lieutenant Commander Scott was given charge of the bridge. An away team comprised of the captain, you, Commander Spock, Lieutenant Mathews, and Ensign Thiang beamed to the moon's surface. Captain Kirk found something there, did he not? Something that upset him?"

McCoy slams his hands down on the table. "That's it," he snarls. He pushes himself to his feet. "I'll have my communicator back now. We're done." He can taste iron. He needs to get out of here before he breaks something.

"Are you in love with Jim Kirk?"

The question, asked in that bland, equable tone, sets fire to McCoy's nerves. "That's none of your goddamn business," he snarls.

"It's my business if Kirk becomes unstable, if he becomes a liability for the Federation. It's the business of Starfleet Intelligence, at any rate. A man who lets his personal feelings cloud his judgment…" He looks McCoy directly in the eye as he says this. "But I imagine I'll learn a great deal about Kirk's feelings when I review his personal log."

He opens his hand again, and there's the datachip McCoy passed him earlier.

"Review it," McCoy says dispassionately. "Or shove it up your ass. Either way, I don't care. There's nothing on that chip except me telling you to go fuck yourself."

For the first time, a line of concern appears between Schrader's eyebrows. "My agency can make things very difficult for you."

"Yeah? Take a number."

"We know things. More importantly, we know people. You could be transferred from the _Enterprise_. Your path might not cross Kirk's for years."

"I doubt that," McCoy says, and it's a real struggle to keep the uncertainty out of his voice. He's palpably aware of Jim's absence now, and, while he certainly doesn't want the kid here right now to witness his loss of composure – like that's never happened before – he kind of needs him.

"Try us," Schrader says.

*

 

He goes back to the ship and spends the rest of the day alone in his quarters. He changes the message on his communicator to DO NOT DISTURB UNLESS THERE IS A REAL MEDICAL EMERGENCY. The "real" is for Jim, who has a bad habit – not that McCoy minds – of showing up in his office, in need of "emergency" sex. "Healing cock," he sometimes calls it. Which McCoy _does_ mind.

He has supper alone at his desk, though he could have had real food on the station. After recycling his tray and utensils, he sheds his clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor – which isn't like him at all – and goes to take a shower. As he stands in the narrow stall he sort of regrets not going to Jim's quarters; there's something pleasantly scouring about scalding water and steam, which the sonic showers just don't capture. Still, he stands there for a long time, palms flat against the stall door, head and shoulders bowed.

Whatever's going on, it's too much for him. He's brilliant, sure, but he has the mind of a surgeon, not a politician. He prefers the direct approach: figure out what's wrong with the patient or patients, and fix it. There are no backroom deals, no labyrinthine schemes. Several of his teachers at Ole Miss told him that he'd find neither happiness nor success in administration, and he believed them, even back when he was young and ambitious. He can handle his own medical bay, and that's about it. But that's fine because that's what he loves doing.

He hates this feeling, this _knowledge_, that there are things going on over his head, things that concern him and the people he loves, and he can't do a goddamn thing about them.

He hates this feeling of powerlessness.

He hates games, particularly when lives are at stake. Any lives, but especially Jim Kirk's.

*

Jim is waiting for him when he finally emerges from the bathroom, hair uncombed, a towel wrapped around his waist. He's sprawled across McCoy's bed in his off-duty uniform, boots and socks off. His shirt has ridden up, revealing a couple of inches of flat belly. It gives him a relaxed, open appearance – quickly belied by the hardness of his eyes and his flat tone. "Hey, Bones," he says. "How'd your meeting go?"

McCoy stops where he is and sucks in his breath. He didn't tell Jim about his meeting with Agent Schrader, just that he was going to be busy all day. He isn't surprised that the kid somehow found out; Jim is nothing if not astute, especially when it comes to the activities of his crew. He meant to tell Jim – tomorrow, maybe, when Starbase 11 is far behind them.

"Bones?"

McCoy shrugs. "Not bad, I guess."

Jim just looks at him, and God damn those eyes of his. They could crack the souls of stronger men than Leonard H. McCoy.

"Awful," he says. "Fucking awful. I'm sorry, Jim. I fucked it all up."

Jim frowns. "What did you fuck up?"

"That's the thing: I don't even know. I have no fucking clue. He asked questions about you, and I answered them because he's Starfleet Intelligence, but…" He bites his lip. He doesn't know that he said anything particularly revealing to Schrader; still, he can't shake the nauseating suspicion that he somehow betrayed Jim.

"Bones, c'mere."

When he doesn't move, Jim pats the blanket. "Come on. I want to talk, and I don't want to get up."

McCoy's legs start to move, seemingly of their own volition. "Are you feeling all right?" He looks fine. A little pale, maybe, but other than that…

The thick eyebrows quirk. "You never stop being a doctor, do you? I'm fine. I'm just tired. C'mere."

Taking Jim's admission as a good sign – he so rarely lets on when he's not in optimal condition – McCoy acquiesces. Keeping the towel wrapped tightly around his waist, he lowers himself to the edge of the bed, and leans forward, his forearms resting on his knees. He stares at his feet. At length, he feels fingertips on the small of his back. He tenses involuntarily, but Jim strokes slow, gentle circles into his skin and after a time, he begins to relax.

"I thought," McCoy says, still staring at his feet, "that I could record the conversation, but he took my communicator."

"It's okay."

"It isn't, Jim. I don't know who, but someone in Starfleet Intelligence doesn't trust you."

"I know. I've known that for a long time." His tone is heavy with resignation. "Not everyone in the Admiralty was happy when I got the _Enterprise_. A couple of them didn't think I'd earned it. Blanchard told me to my face that she thought it was a PR stunt. After Starfleet failed to save Vulcan, after all those ships were lost…" He pauses to inhale deeply. "Morale and enlistment were so low, they needed someone young and handsome on the bridge of the flagship. Someone out of a pulp science fiction novel. A matinee idol. An action figure."

"Enough, Jim. I've heard all this before."

"Doesn't make it any less true."

"Or more acceptable."

The hand stroking his back stops abruptly.

"What kind of questions did he ask?" There's no emotion, not even curiosity, in Jim's voice and McCoy regrets his words and his tone, but he doesn't apologize.

"Ixonus VII. The Andorian science vessel. The Vaadonite research facility on Athaal."

"Those aren't questions."

"He was interested in your reactions. Seemed to think the official records were incomplete."

"They are," says Jim.

"Well, that's too goddamn bad!" McCoy stamps his foot. "Our reports were as complete as they needed to be. What you felt – that's yours. They don't need, they don't _deserve_…"

"Hey, Bones." The mattress dips slightly as Jim pushes himself up. His warm hands cup McCoy's shoulders and turn him.

"I gave away more than I intended, but I didn't tell him about what happened on Athaal. He seemed to know about the holos, but I didn't tell him—"

"Bones."

"He seemed to know anyway. The word he used was 'upset,' which—"

"_Bones._" Jim cups his face and brings their foreheads together. "Stop for a second. We need to think. I need you to help me. Someone from Starfleet Intelligence knows I lost my shit on Athaal. And that wasn't in the official reports."

"That means you have a spy." Just saying the words makes McCoy feel queasy.

"I figured that out early on."

"You didn't tell me."

"I didn't want you worrying."

"_Jim_—" Angry and exasperated, he wraps his hands tightly around Jim's wrists. He wants to ask, _Did you tell Spock?_ but he bites back the words. Now is not the time for jealousy, and anyway, Jim's talking again.

"I don't know who it is. If it's just one person, or several."

"Mathews. Thiang. They were on Athaal with us."

Jim shakes his head. "Thiang's a green ensign. Not her."

"Mathews? The two of you have a history—"

"Cupcake?" Jim actually laughs. "He's like a dog, and I mean that in the best sense: show the right amount of authority and affection, and you've got the man's loyalty."

"I'll tell him you said so."

"Go ahead, but you're the one who's going to have to fix my face after he breaks it."

McCoy doesn't smile. "You don't think you're being a little flippant?"

"Maybe, but my instinct tells me it's not either of them. Anyone who saw me between the time we beamed back to the ship, and the time you whisked me away to the med bay could've figured out what happened down there. I've studied the duty rosters. I know who was on the bridge at that time, who was in the transporter room, and who was on-duty in the med bay. But anyone who just happened to see me in the corridors…" He sighs and rests his forehead against McCoy's. McCoy feels the tickle of his lashes as his eyes flutter closed. "That's the worst part, you know. Not knowing who I can trust."

"I know," McCoy whispers.

"Someone is trying to fuck with me. Someone is really trying hard to fuck with me."

McCoy thinks back on what Jim has told him thus far. "Someone in the Admiralty?"

"I don't think so. To reach the rank of admiral, you have to go through so many psych evals. To murder a bunch of Andorian scientists, and a bunch of Vaadonite researchers, that's just … that's beyond sick."

_So,_ McCoy thinks grimly, _is torturing a man, and leaving holos of his burned, bleeding, broken body right where you know he'll find them. That takes a special kind of depravity._ His hands tighten around Jim's wrists, thumbs rubbing the fleshy heels of his palms.

Slowly, Jim says, "I can't believe anyone in Starfleet would sacrifice that many lives, just to shake me up. I can't. What are they trying to do, Bones? Push me over the edge? And _why_? What the hell do they think justifies that many deaths? Even _one_ death. All those people. Bones, _why_?"

McCoy wonders if he should put his arms around Jim and pull him close. For weeks after they pulled him off that abandoned station in the Jaura system, Jim refused to let anyone touch him. McCoy slept on the couch in the captain's quarters, just out of arm's reach. He let Jim handle the hyposprays, though he kept a careful eye on how much painkiller he gave himself. (Jim, he judged correctly, was far more likely to deliberately skip a dose than to overdose.) Dr. Noel, the ship psychiatrist, thought Jim was functioning adequately, all things considered, and just needed time, but McCoy worried. There were nights when Jim sat so still, his skin pale, his eyes dull, that it was as if he'd gone into shock and McCoy thought with a dreadful certainty, _I'm going to lose him._

Noel was right, of course – thank God. Jim is more himself these days, though he prefers to be the one to initiate intimacy, and there's still something in his occasional pauses, in his moments of silence that break McCoy's heart.

He settles for stroking Jim's hands. He can feel the tension and he wants to say, _Don't, kid. Don't think about it right now. Leave it for the morning._ But he can't, because Jim can't.

Jim says, "Bones, have you ever heard of Section 31?"

McCoy thinks, but he ends up shaking his head. "Doesn't ring a bell. What is it?"

Jim leans back. He drops his hands and McCoy lets them fall. "Hard to say, actually, since they don't officially exist."

"Black ops?"

"Yeah. Independent of Starfleet. At least from what I've picked up over the years." When he talks like that, he sounds like he's been captain for a lot longer than two years, and much older than twenty-eight. Sitting there with his head bowed and his brow furrowed in thought, he _looks_ older.

"Their self-appointed task seems to be making sure the Federation keeps…" He gestures broadly. "Running smoothly. Eliminating threats."

"I see. You think they're behind this?"

"I don't know."

"Why, though? You think they think you're somehow a threat to the Federation? You _saved_ the goddamn Federation!"

"And then I was supposed to be their golden poster boy." He tips his head and gives McCoy a limp smile.

"So you give some admirals and some guys in Starfleet Intelligence an ulcer or two. I still don't understand—"

"Neither do I." His smile becomes grim and his eyes harden again. "If I'm really a threat, why not just have me killed? Why all this? Maybe … maybe it's someone who isn't even part of the Federation. Maybe it's someone we've never even encountered, pulling strings. I don't know. But I'm going to figure this out, Bones. I swear on the souls of those Andorians and Vaadonites. I'm going to find out who's responsible, and I'm going to make them answer for what they've done. When I'm done with them, they'll know the names of every scientist on that ship, and every researcher at that station on Athaal."

There's a pause, then McCoy says, his mouth dry, "You learned their names?"

Jim's jaw tightens and he nods. "They're people, not fucking pawns. Someone doesn't get that. They will when I'm through."

_And this,_ McCoy thinks, his hand inching toward Jim's, _is why I'm here, hundreds of light-years from rain and fresh air and Georgia's red earth._ He planned to tell Jim about Agent Schrader's threat. Not tonight, probably not tomorrow, but at some point.

He changes his mind.

McCoy can deal with this on his own. Whatever dirt Schrader thinks he has on him – and there are skeletons in McCoy's closet that Jim doesn't know about – he'll deal with it. Maybe not the smartest move, but at the moment he doesn't give a damn. He grabs Jim's hand and the blue eyes widen, but McCoy doesn't let go. He lifts Jim's hand and brushes his lips across the knuckles.

"Whatever you figure out," he says, his voice level despite the knot tightening in his throat, "whatever you decide to do, I'm with you. I hate this crap. I fucking hate it. Politics, or whatever it turns out to be. I'm a doctor, not a secret agent. But I'm on your side. You're my captain. My friend. I love you. You can trust me. You can always trust me."

The blue eyes search his face for what feels like forever. Then Jim leans toward him and presses their lips together. It's a strange kiss, neither passionate nor gentle. McCoy just sits there with his mouth half-open, giving pressure for pressure, breathing Jim in. He feels fingertips on his bare skin, stroking over his heart.

"I know, Bones," Jim whispers.

6/25/10


End file.
